Chapter 23: Thunder Road 061725

      Some grunts remember it as being the gateway to Hell. It was a red clay road that stretched from just north of Saigon to the Cambodian border. It was Highway 13, and its famous nickname was Thunder Road. In 1967, it was a main resupply route for many Big Red One operations. Thunder Road divided War Zone C to the west and War Zone D to the east. The most southern portion was much more heavily populated. Just north of Saigon, it ran east of the Iron Triangle. Further north was Lai Khe. Lai Khe was a Big Red One forward operating base. Just north of Lai Khe and to the west of Thunder Road was the Long Nguyen Secret Zone.

     By November 1967, large bulldozers called Rome plows had destroyed vast swaths of virgin forest on both sides of the highway. Mammoth, age-old trees were slain, and the enormous wealth of their lumber burned. They could have remained until this very day had the war been fought with understanding. However, such understanding only comes through the wisdom of God. Without it, humanity is no more capable of managing life on earth than a possum can manage a safe crossing of a busy highway.

     On November 7, Dick and his boys were air-lifted out of the rubber trees at Loc Ninh and flown twenty-three miles back to Quan Loi. B Company had stayed at Quan Loi throughout the entire battle at Loc Ninh. Dick had chosen B Company to stay behind mainly because it was understrength and needed to be refitted. I was due to leave the country on November 28, and should have been getting excited about returning to the States, but I wasn't. I was numb to those kinds of feelings at this point. 

     Watts Caudill met briefly with Dick on the evening of the 7th, just after the other three companies returned from Loc Ninh. All four company commanders were likely present at that meeting. There would not have been much discussed personally between Dick and Watts. Caudill had missed what had turned out to be the climax of Dick's combat career. It was a climax that could not have been more exciting and dramatic. Those events could have fit nicely into the ending of a Mel Gibson movie. However, back at Quan Loi, Dick did not mention details about those recent battles. He knew that everyone had performed magnificently, and he also knew that they knew. No immediate pats on the back were necessary. No after-action critiquing was required. There would be plenty of time in the years to come for sitting around singing their "kum-ba-yas". He had already experienced those times once when he had returned from Korea. Although he very much wanted to pat some people on the back now, it just wasn't quite the right time, especially in front of the B Company Commander, who had not been there. So, without any fanfare, Dick curtly gave Captain Watts Caudill his marching orders for the next day, and "held his peace" on all that he wished he could say. "Caudill, have your company on the airstrip tomorrow morning. You will be securing Highway 13 twelve kilometers south of An Loc." Then, turning his head, he addressed the other commanders with the following remark. "The rest of us will probably be joining Watts in a few days, but for now, we are getting some downtime. Captain Annan, your C Company will stay behind as ready reserve when we do pull out".  

     At Loc Ninh, Dick's men had performed beyond all expectations. Even the hard-to-please Westmoreland acknowledged his pleasure in a most remarkable statement. Westmoreland commented afterward that the only mistake the Big Red One made at Loc Ninh was that they made it look too easy. What Westmoreland really meant, but couldn't say, was that Dick had been the hot iron in the middle of that "easy part", steadily ironing out the wrinkles. 

     The next day, B Company was flown south to that position on Thunder Road. Caudill's B Company relieved one of Oliver Stone's 25th Division units. Thunder Road had to be cleared of mines and secured every day to protect resupply convoys coming up from the South. However, B Company stayed at that location for only one day. While they were there, Quan Loi was hit with a rocket attack. Rocket attacks were not all that common during my tour of duty. The next day, B Company was relieved by Sergeant Murray's 1/16th, and Caudill's men rejoined the rest of the battalion at Quan Loi. It was a precaution taken to beef up defenses in case of an all-out attack on the airstrip. However, that attack never materialized. 

     Operation Shenandoah II was terminated on November 19. At that time, A, B, and D Companies were flown from Quan Loi to take up positions on Thunder Road just south of An Loc. As I said, C Company stayed behind at Quan Loi. By this time, the cooks and I had been transported back to Di An, and B Company stayed on that dusty red clay road for the remainder of my tour of duty in Vietnam. I was unable to say goodbye to anyone in my old squad. Although I would remember Winstead, Walker, Milliron, Bartee, and Bowman for a lifetime, I would never again see or talk to them. Other battles continued along the Cambodian border as well as further north near the border with Laos. Yet, nothing changed Westmoreland's mind about the way he wanted to fight the war. If the events in the last months of 1967 were not clear signs that he was in a stalemate, then I do not know what it would have taken to wake him up to that fact.

     The 165th NVA Regiment had demonstrated itself to be amateurish in its face-to-face shootout with Mac McLaughlin's C Company on the 29th and had become lost on its way to attack the Loc Ninh airfield on the 31st. Nevertheless, they were the most well-suited, in terms of numbers, to take a hike South. Shortly after the battles at Loc Ninh were over, their commander was given explicit orders to attack American outposts protecting supply lines along Thunder Road. Why they had not done so before attacking Loc Ninh is evidence that the communist were not giving much thought to their big battle campaigns. Thunder Road was the main supply route north to Loc Ninh. The best time to have attacked this supply route would have been just before Tra launched his attacks on the Loc Ninh air strip and not afterward. That's assuming that he had had any realistic expectations of winning his latest military campaign against us Americans. I don't believe he did. It's obvious, in the way that these attacks on Loc Ninh unfolded, that he had no such expectations. By this point in the war, senior communist leadership surely knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that they could not win big battle campaigns against the might of the American military. As I have already mentioned, these large-scale battles were merely a ruse, which did not require meticulous planning. We, naive Americans, helped the communists perpetuate this ruse, not by our faulty tactics like bombing the North, or failing to sever supply lines along the Ho Chi Minh trail, but by giving the communists virtually the unfettered ability to govern the country during the nighttime hours. During the hours of darkness, these powers of darkness had a free hand to harness the cooperation of the South Vietnamese people through their many acts of terror and intimidation. Once the human resources of the South were harnessed to support those insurgent NVA armies, the communists were free to continue their inapt trial-and-error "big battle" campaigns until we "bully Americans" got tired of chasing that red flag and went home. Why should people like Duan care about how many young Vietnamese people needed to die to make his dreams of power come true? In the history of the communist party, name one leader who showed the slightest hesitation to order the mass murders of his fellow citizens, if it meant gaining more power for himself.   

     As I have said, the important thing for the communists was to buy time, while the plans for Tet were coming together. There were new conscripts from up north and war supplies streaming in from Russia and China every day. The 165th could once again field 1700 troops. The entire First Division on its best day could field no more than 3600 actual fighting men. Still, these draftee soldiers and their "lifer" NCOs were a formidable force when they were managed by knowledgeable leadership. Patton would have definitely wanted this new crop of S.O.B.s, as he once called the men of the Big Red One. He famously said, of the First Division, "I want those S.O.B.s. I won't invade Sicily without them".

     On the other hand, the NVA 165th regiment's commander, Col. Nguyen Hoa, had not shown himself to be the most knowledgeable commander, but like I said, he didn't need to be. He was par for the course. Perceptions were all that mattered. World leaders, both past and present, are easily swayed by perceptions that have little to do with reality.

     There were seven outposts along the seventy-kilometer stretch between Lai Khe and An Loc on Thunder Road. These were labeled Caisson I through Caisson VII on my war maps, but the grunts who operated them called them "Thunders one through seven". During 1967, they were occupied by American troops in night defensive positions (NDP). During the day, American troops would work with the engineers to clear their assigned section of Thunder Road, allowing convoys to pass safely.

     The traffic on Thunder Road included civilian and military vehicles. It was a bustling highway. There were all types of vehicles, from large buses to bicycles, traveling this road each day. These vehicles transported all kinds of food items, from meats to vegetables, supposedly heading for markets in other towns and villages. Still, some was diverted into the hands of VC support troops along the way. This siphoning provided a constant supply of foodstuffs to any NVA unit in the area at the time. Man cannot live by rice alone. This siphoning of meats and vegetables from the populace supplemented the rice, which was shipped from other hidden collection points. It would have been too obvious to send large rice shipments up and down Thunder Road. (By the way, the Vietnamese were masters at shipping, storing, and preserving these rice supplies in the wet jungle environment.) We Americans paid little attention to these small quantities of produce and meat being transported each day to collection points. The initiating transactions for these goods and services were done at night through intimidation and acts of terror by the local communist party members in their assigned areas of control. Much of the transport, however, was carried out during daylight hours, in front of our very noses. No one paid any attention to a farmer transporting small quantities of vegetables from one place to another. If a family had a small garden, there would be stiff penalties to pay if a portion of that garden did not find its way onto the delivery vehicles, which ran up and down these major highways. These food products were then delivered to designated collection points. From there, they were gathered up and delivered to jungle hideouts by VC support troops.

     Ole Westy didn't have a clue. He had always been fortunate enough to get his food steaming hot straight off the dinner table. That there existed a sophisticated logistics system operating to feed a massive insurgent army was not something his well-groomed personage could ever consider. So, he didn't. Since he had never had to put food on the table himself by his own hard work, he had never given much thought to the fact that all dinner tables require a tremendous number of things to happen for that food to appear in time for supper. Yet, it's common knowledge that an army will always run on its stomach. Had Westy given any thought whatsoever to this fact, he may have realized that these large in-country armies were not being fed by people peddling for hundreds of miles down the Ho Chi Minh trail on bicycles or even driving trucks. Instead, the enemy was given the nighttime by us, to coerce the South Vietnamese into becoming their grocery supply and delivery service. We Americans spent millions of our own dollars maintaining, improving, and guarding the very roads that were their supply routes. This one thing speaks volumes to the importance of taking and securing ground where civilians can live safely twenty-four hours a day. If a war leader cannot understand the importance of protecting the civilian population on the ground gained, then woe to the nation that puts that person in charge of anything. If we had done that one thing in Vietnam, then those insurgent NVA armies would have been starved out in no time. Petraeus understood this fact and thus turned a much worse situation around in less than a year in Iraq. MacArthur understood the importance of providing order, safety, and freedom to the populace when he became governor of Japan after the war. His Japanese successor wept when MacArthur stepped down from his powerful position.

     The South Vietnamese people were no more two-faced than anyone else. Yet, they were commonly portrayed as being so by many. Instead, they were coerced into playing a double-minded game. Almost anyone facing similar circumstances would have done the same. Changing this situation and gaining better cooperation from Vietnamese civilians required more than dropping millions of flyers from a plane, kind words, a few handouts, and spotty medical services, which we labeled "pacification". Citizens of different countries naturally have different cultures, but we all have the same basic needs. We all need to be provided with a safe and lawful living space, where we can freely go about our chosen endeavors to provide for ourselves and our families. Petraeus knew that. McArthur knew that. Westmoreland either didn't know or didn't care to know.  

     On November 19, when Captain Caudill and company arrived again at their assigned outpost on Thunder Road, Caudill's keen eyes noticed something. By now in his tour, he could tell what good defensive positions looked like. These were not that. It was obvious that the unit being relieved had done nothing to improve them, but that wasn't necessarily that unit's fault. Units guarding Thunder Road came and went more often than Zsa Zsa Gabor changed husbands. Caudill's men had been out here on Thunder Road just a few days before. They stayed only a day and were then flown back to Quan Loi after a rocket attack hit the air strip. Different units were constantly being swapped in and out of this road security duty for various reasons. This frequent change in these road guard duties just naturally meant that most unit commanders were not there long enough to become interested in maintaining and repairing the fortifications. Watts Caudill, however, was not like most commanders.  

     Immediately after noticing the poor condition of the defenses, Caudill had a face-to-face meeting with his platoon leaders. Together, they quickly marked positions that needed work or repositioning altogether. When he finished with that little chore, he started walking back to his own command bunker. As he walked, in my mind's eye, I can still imagine a little smile break out on Caudill's face. It happened in response to his eyes spotting in the distance the APCs pulling onto Thunder Road. They were taking his men to their guard positions, scattered along Thunder Road, where they would relieve the 1/16th men and sit in the hot sun for the rest of the day. Caudill's two RTOs, Fred Walters and David Eaton, walking behind Watts, could not see his smile.

     The grin itself was Caudill's way of outwardly displaying his pent-up feelings toward his men. You see, deep inside, he felt bad about the little surprise he had in store for those men when they returned to base camp for the night. They would spend a hot day on that clay road, eating its dust, only to learn that he would be ordering them to repair or maybe relocate their bunker before they could rest for the night. That would seem cruel, and Watts hated displays of cruelty in anyone, including himself. Yet, that order had to be given. That work had to be done. It could mean the difference between living and dying. Oh yes, He was going to be very unpopular for a while. He was also going to hear a lot of moaning and groaning. However, listening to moaning and groaning coming from live soldiers was a lot more tolerable than writing death notifications to parents and spouses of dead soldiers. So, that is why Watts was smiling. It was a tension-relieving smile, brought on to relieve the tension he knew he would experience from listening to a bunch of tired, grumbling grunts having to do more hard work at the end of the day, when they thought that they were going to get a little break from the grind. Oh well, like I said, listening to their grumbling was better than staring down at their dead bodies.     

     Each morning, after returning to the already established Night Defensive position on Thunder Road, Caudill had his usual morning briefing with Dick. It happened over the battalion radio, and it was short and sweet. Of course, Dick put his weight behind Caudill's decision to repair the defenses. Anyone in supply who didn't jump and provide us with the needed materials, like Marston matting, sandbags, shovels, and mattocks, would be getting a call from Dick himself. Most, however, were already familiar with Dick, either through personal experience or from hearsay. Rarely was a personal call from him necessary. By now, my Dogface Battalion was a smooth-running machine. Every new incoming NCO soon learned what was expected of them, not directly from Dick, but from their own peers. Those peers had already been thoroughly marinated in Dick's secret sauce of command. Most rear echelon NCOs never met the battalion commander face-to-face. However, they met his reputation as soon as they jumped off that proverbial "turnip wagon". Slackers had long since been weeded out. Dogface was a completely liberated unit. Here is what I mean by that. Its young leadership had been instilled with confidence from a leader who knew how to instill confidence, by consistently letting his subordinates know not only what was expected but also what was not expected of them.

     Furthermore, Dick's ability to trust his men made us feel comfortable in taking the initiative. It was quite a remarkable thing for a grunt like me to witness. Rear echelon people, too, were made to feel part of the team. Yet, it would be years before any of us were able to come together and discuss what each of us had witnessed from our different perspectives. When that finally happened, I was amazed. Almost to a man, after so many years, we all agreed on one thing. Dick was an incredibly effective leader. 

     With that said, let’s get back to talking about my B Company's Thanksgiving Day on Thunder Road. The following account of this day on Thunder Road offers the reader a snapshot of the pressure junior commanders faced while serving in the field with the First Division. In our case, that pressure was made bearable during 1967 by our remarkable field commander. That was not the case for so many others.

     Well-maintained defenses were the difference between living and dying. Caudill had been fortunate enough to attend and then live through the O.J.T. class, which taught that lesson. After arriving back at his command bunker, he handed off the follow-up of bunker repairs to First Sergeant Pink Dillard. Pink then contacted the supply sergeant. Both men were doers, so it didn't take much to get the supply sergeant moving. He was given a list of the necessary work equipment and supplies to be delivered before the last supply chopper shutdown for the night.

     Meanwhile, civilian traffic was increasing on Thunder Road. Civilian vendors seemed to come from nowhere to sell their wares to this new crop of customers. Cold bottles of Cokes were always a favorite. An “old man” showed up outside the wire, where he offered haircuts and shaves. D Company had landed in an outpost further south, and Dick flew in with A Company six klicks north toward An Loc. All three companies were bombarded by these Vietnamese "door-to-door" salesmen working the neighborhood.

     As soon as Caudill returned to the command bunker, Walters and Eaton quickly unharnessed their radios from their backs and started examining the repairs needed for the fortification. Both men had learned the hard way that they must be proactive on this sort of thing before First Sergeant Pink Dillard got involved. If not, he undoubtedly would require more work than necessary. That was just the man's nature. Once his controlling steel trap of a mind latched onto an idea concerning how something should be done, there was no way for a grunt to pry it open for reconsideration. It was his way or the highway. Caudill loved Pink’s "bad cop" attitude, but even he would admit, if only to himself, that it could be a little tiring at times. All Walters or Eaton knew for sure was that the more they could keep Pink from getting involved, the better things would turn out. Not even the smooth-talking Milliron, who was undoubtedly the best schmoozer in the unit, could change Pink's mind on how something should be done. If they didn't want the joyous experience of digging in the hard ground half the night, then they knew that they had better get to work on bunker repairs fast. Walters also knew something else. He knew that it would be prudent to be on the lookout for opportunities, coming across the radios, which might allow him to divert Pink's attention to other problems on the other side of the perimeter defenses.  

     Caudill was the overall commander in charge of this little band of grunts guarding Thunder Road. They were under strength, rarely fielding more than a hundred men. Even so, having given orders to make the necessary changes to fortifications, it was time to swap gears and think about other things. Two mechanized units were operating with B Company. "Fred, give those two commanders of the mechanized units a call so that we can get acquainted. I want to meet them personally before I have to reach out to them later in a hurry. I also want to talk to them about repositioning their armor after dark, and I sure don't want to do that over the radio. The wrong ears might be listening." Repositioning of armor was done to confuse any spying going on during daylight hours. Thunder Road spies would mark locations of our armor so enemy mortar teams could shell them after dark.

     While Fred was contacting the mechanized units, Caudill turned and spoke briefly with his forward observer. He addressed him by his first name. "I want to make sure that we are on the same page when registering those rounds outside the perimeter", Caudill said. "Show me your registration points on your map." The forward observer (FO) held up his map, but a gust of wind caught it. Both men dropped to their knees at the same time, grabbing a corner and spreading the map out on the ground in front of them. Caudill pointed with his finger to two different locations on the artilleryman's map. "I want to add these two spots here and here. Be sure and mark them plainly", Caudill added. "Do you understand?" The young Lieutenant acknowledged back, raising his voice slightly. "I understand that, sir".

     As Caudill rose to his feet again, that can of peaches hidden away in his rucksack started calling his name. But no. He had better take a good look first at where to place his ambush patrol. He knew he needed to position his ambush patrol in a spot that afforded as much good cover as possible. With that thought, Caudill reached inside his jungle fatigues' pocket and pulled out his own folded map.

     As he was reaching for that map, his eyes wandered toward First Sergeant Dillard, who had abruptly broken off a conversation with Walters and was heading for the far side of the perimeter. "Where is Pink going?" Caudill asked Walters. Smiling, Walters replied, "He's taking a look at a problem with the interlocking firing lanes cut for two bunkers on the other side of the perimeter". Caudill did not answer, but grinned that funny little grin again. Still smiling, he turned his head and looked Walters straight in the face. That grin said it all. It told Walters that his commander was not stupid. Caudill knew exactly what Fred Walters had done to Pink Dillard. Walters sheepishly grinned back at his captain as Caudill continued to unfold his map.

     As he turned his attention to the map again, a troubling thought popped into his mind. Caudill realized that he needed to think a little more carefully about the placement of his ambush patrols. Those locations needed more scrutiny than usual because he had armor in camp. As he began to pore over the map again, he was interrupted this time by something Eaton was doing.

     David Eaton had broken out in a funny little grin of his own, as he knowingly watched Pink spouting out orders to a grunt on the far side of the perimeter. While still grinning and watching Pink, Eaton mindlessly reached down and started removing another rotten sandbag off the top of the command bunker. It ripped apart in midair, and the moist dirt inside splashed all over Caudill's left leg. Eaton's careless actions disrupted Caudill's focus on his map, causing him to grimace. Eaton saw the grimace and began to explain his actions. "These sandbags and wooden support poles on the roof are rotten, Sir. We need to replace them with steel plates and new sandbags." Turning to Fred, Eaton asks, "Fred, will you contact the supply sergeant at Lai Khe and have him add them to his supply list for me?" Fred grunted, "Yes", as he continued to help dismantle the roof of the command bunker. Caudill turned to his map again and tried to ignore the wet dirt clinging to one leg of his jungle fatigues. The perfectionist side of him wanted to yell at Eaton for getting his fatigues muddy, and he knew those plates were called Marston matting, but Watts had learned a long time ago when it was time to tell that perfectionist side of himself to shut up. Sally had helped put the final touches on that lesson. The proper name of those steel plates didn't matter, and neither did his muddy pants leg. As he squelched his instinct to lash out at Eaton, a little voice inside reminded him that he had found the "picks of the litter" when he found Eaton and Walters. Not only could they handle the complexities of his radio communications, but their work ethics were also great. "They sure took a lot of routine headaches off his shoulders.

     Caudill would never tell any of his men what they meant to him. He couldn't. Unlike Dick, Watts had not come out on the other side of war yet, so he could not become what Dick was becoming. Dick was developing into a warrior of the first magnitude. However, Watts had the Holy Spirit, and Dick didn't. The Holy Spirit was preparing Watts for a much greater position, which is to rule and reign with Christ Himself. Eaton and Walters continued to tear into the command bunker, while Caudill continued to study his map.

     "Fred, when Pink gets back, remind me to tell him to note reasons on the roster report for why people are leaving the field tomorrow". "Yes, sir", Walters replied. "Sir, you know my name will be on that list soon. The day after Thanksgiving, I am going on R & R to Japan". Caudill replied with a "grunt". Then, he looked down at the map one more time.

     "Ah, yes". Caudill now realized what was bothering him. He was troubled by the placement of his ambush patrols. The solution just came to him, and it was simple. Why had he made it so complicated? In the event of an attack, his ambush patrol would almost surely be caught in a deadly crossfire if they were placed according to S.O.P., only 500 meters in front of the perimeter. Why? Because those armored units would undoubtedly open up with those formidable fifty caliber machine guns. They would chew everything up within 500 meters of the perimeter. However, if he located his ambush patrol further out, say, 1000 meters, they would have a much better chance of sitting out an attack undetected by an attacking force and also be out of range of our own friendly fire. The longer distance strayed from standard procedure, but Caudill knew that Cavazos would be okay with his decision. Thankfully, he had a battalion commander who understood the need to deviate from standard procedures on occasion. Completely gone now were any thoughts of eating his little can of peaches. He again addressed his artilleryman. Together, they plotted registration points for the night's ambush patrol. Caudill would stipulate the actual location and mention to the FO to be sure and drop rounds on a couple of false locations as well. He didn't want to give away the real location to a smart enemy.

     Finally, Caudill took a breather. He started helping his grunts tear into the roof of the command bunker. It felt good to give his full attention to something that really didn't require that much thinking. If the truth be known, he, too, was glad Pink was on the other side of the perimeter barking out orders instead of lending a hand with the command bunker. However, that was another thought which would not be shared with his grunts.

     By the time Pink returned to the command bunker, the sun was starting to set. A Chinook, making the short flight from Lai Khe, landed in a nearby makeshift landing pad. Several guys were heading toward it to help unload. Looking up, Caudill stopped what he was doing to see who was getting off that chopper. One of the guys was the supply sergeant. That was good. It was good because he needed to nonchalantly mention to him that his grunts were clearing a spot for the big tent. That would be a good way to remind the supply sergeant that he had better see the big tent show up on time. You see, the big tent was an essential part of one of the most enjoyable times a grunt would have during his entire time in the field. That fabulous event was called Thanksgiving Dinner, and it came with all the trimmings. The big tent would make this whole delicious affair possible because it allowed the cooks to serve that scrumptious meal protected from the red dust blowing off Thunder Road.

     Oh yeah, there was just one more thing for Caudill to remember. It was essential to ensure that those sleepy-eyed tank commanders moved their armor back to their daylight positions before sunrise. "Fred, you need to be sure and take last watch so you can wake me early", Caudill announced in a monotone voice. Again, this was just one more thing to add to just one more thing. This time, the final thing to address in his mind was a possible replacement for Fred while he was on R&R. Fred's reminder earlier was timely because he had forgotten to start considering who to pick. He really did need to give it some thought. “So it was”, for one company commander in one infantry company in 1967 Vietnam. The grind went on. Caudill's mind kept going as the sun dipped lower. It bathed that last faded green Chinook in a golden hue, as it climbed higher, turning its big nose toward Lai Khe. There would be no time to wrap his mind around writing to Sally tonight. When sleep finally found Caudill, it was several hours after sunset and soon to be interrupted by a problem on the perimeter. A couple of hours later, it was interrupted once more by a non-life-threatening problem with the ambush patrol. Most of the time, these problems could be dealt with in short order so he could catch another nap. Day after day, however, the grind was relentless. Not only did a company commander have to endure the same hardships as their troops, but they also had to think critically and make life and death decisions.

     This day, just before Thanksgiving, was a typical day. It was one day to be added to a catalog of many days in the field, and each passing day left behind many more war dead. However, God did not cease to work. Nor was He surprised by the violence. He had already made a way of escape for those who had confessed Him as Lord. An eternal life and an eternal legacy were being mapped for them. There was only one requirement. It only required that they confess Jesus Christ to be born of the Spirit immediately. Here is a great irony. Soldiers can be engaged in the same battle. Some can be born of the Spirit but be fighting on the wrong side. Others, who fight on the right side but refuse to confess Christ as Lord of all, will not see eternity. (John 17:3) Not only will they not see eternal life, but they shall only be remembered throughout eternity by the associations that they had with true believers in Christ.    

     During the days leading up to Thanksgiving, which was on November 23, Thunder Road was packed with civilians. Young vendors would peel off from the other traffic and approach my B Company guys, who were stationed in guard positions along the route. Each day, the same young merchandizers showed up, becoming more friendly and more engaging with each successive visit to these road guard outposts. They, in turn, were drawn to the overall goodwill of the average American grunt. That goodwill dispelled fears of the night, creating a brief respite from those communist orcs, who were able to work their most evil desires upon the land during that night but retreated into their underground tunnels during the daylight hours. Through blind ignorance, Westmoreland allowed these orcs of the night to come forth from the dark earth to spread their murderous desires throughout South Vietnam. We grunts only witnessed the civilized daytime behavior between us grunts and those thousands of civilians who passed by our positions each day. We did not witness them being terrorized by the orcs of the night. This daytime behavior was not much different than that experienced by American tourists visiting any other less developed country, which was not at war. I spent a lot of time amongst civilians in all types of populated areas and heavily traveled roads in Vietnam. I never witnessed a single terrorist event. Truth is, by 1967, blatant "out in the open" daytime terrorism was bad for business. Why should these orcs expose themselves to the bright sunlight when we gave them the entire night to ply their perverted works against the sons and daughters of the South?   

     Targeting influential Americans throughout South Vietnam was not something that received a high priority by the communists, especially since many American leaders were dancing to the music played for them by the communists. It’s better to have an enemy who dances to one's every tune than to kill him and get one who doesn't. By now, "Ole Westy” had proven to every communist from Moscow to Saigon that he was an excellent dancer. By now, with Westy’s help, the communist party had established a robust black market logistics network resupplying over 100,000 North Vietnamese conscripts occupying underground base camps near villages and towns throughout South Vietnam. The Ho Chi Minh Trail alone could never have provided these supplies because after crossing the border, the enemy's means of transportation became extremely limited. It was only logical for a communist shadow government to use the nighttime hours to establish this vital network in the South. They did this through over a hundred thousand surgical murders, often administered in the most brutal, torturous way. They also provided security and financial rewards for those who could be persuaded to work with them. To protect the lives of their own families, many chose to work with the communists. What would the reader have done differently in this same situation?

     Yes, sadly, the communist insurgents were enabled by us. Yet, it did not have to be that way. In the beginning, we could have easily harnessed the power of the South Vietnamese Army as a national police force to root out these local communist orcs, as Petraeus did in Iraq. Yet, every night we abandoned the very people whom we were trying to help during the daylight hours. We didn't do it intentionally. We did it because it is tough for any industrialized nation like ours to invest the materials and workforce necessary to help an underdeveloped country like Vietnam without seeking some return on that investment. An Industrialized war brought a much quicker return on that investment. Sure, some got rich off this industrialized war, but there were also a lot of jobs created for ordinary Americans. Big national defense companies received the shot in the arm, which we badly needed to keep outpacing the Russians in the Cold War. Truth was, this kind of industrialized war, in defense of a backward country, was never going to end well. Yet, few in government understood this at that time, and the ones who did were not in a position to make the right changes. At some point, our leaders had to know that we would have to leave. When we did, the underdeveloped South Vietnamese, whose soldiers had been taught to fight a war on an industrialized scale, had no hope of carrying on. Sure, we left them some mighty powerful weapons, but what were they to do for spare parts? The South Vietnamese soldier was the equal of any soldier in the world, though they lacked the proper senior leadership. However, they had trained and fought with our industrialized equipment. What were they supposed to do when we stopped supplying those spare parts? Were they to fight Russian tanks with sticks and stones?   

     With all that said, hopefully, this helps the reader understand a little more about why we lost that war. Now, let’s get back to the story of my B Company boys. Guarding Thunder Road south of An Loc was quite different from guarding it closer to the Cambodian border. Traffic flow was much heavier but relatively peaceful. That day, when Bill and I had pulled road guard further north, about twenty miles west of Thunder Road, things could not have been more different. There were no civilians on that road. While we listened to Alexander Haig's recon patrol shooting it out in the distance, we also had to watch intently for sappers trying to sneak up on us. It was a totally different environment. Here on this part of Thunder Road, however, there were civilians galore, and no violence to deal with anywhere. Some of the young men approaching grunts here would offer to provide prostitutes and dope. Still, more often, the interactions were friendly bantering over the price of items such as a cigarette lighter or sunglasses. These road vendors offered an array of merchandise as they peddled past the grunts of B Company on their three-wheeled cycles. Most were very young, usually ten or twelve years old. Cold bottles of Coke were very much in demand, and there was no bartering for a bottle of Coke. These were kept in coolers on ice. Their potential customers were sweaty grunts standing in a blazing hot sun. We gladly paid the outrageous price of 50 cents. The money was spent in scrip. (military payment certificates).

     By Thanksgiving Day, a routine had been established within B Company. Every bunker had been reworked. By the eve of Thanksgiving, there was not much for anyone to do. Those who guarded the road were dropped off to stand around all day, and those who stayed behind at base camp sat around on a sandbag all day. Lowly grunts like me tried hard to become as invisible as possible while in camp so they wouldn't get picked for some "s__t" detail. It was boring for everyone. Gone were the monsoon rains. It was the beginning of the dry season, with a scorching hot sun beating down all day. Temperatures reached the high nineties but dropped to the seventies at night. These conditions once again made poncho liners coveted items amongst the shivering new guys who didn't have one. At night, their bodies told them that they were freezing, but of course, they weren't.

     Civilians were not allowed inside the camp, but the barber came faithfully every day. He would sit up in his chair outside the wire, a few feet off Thunder Road. I always got my hair cut at a big base, which had electricity. The coke boy also showed up toward noon each day and sold out fast. "Mike," platoon leader Dale McCall, told me years later that Coke Boy was the son of the barber. That big tent had been pitched by now and provided a meeting place during the day. However, most of the time, everyone hunkered down around their own bunkers, especially at night. So, the big tent stood empty. It loomed in the darkness at the center of the compound, silhouetted against the night sky by the light of little more than a quarter crescent moon. Someone, somewhere, along that perimeter would always be "doctoring up" a canteen of instant coffee with whatever else he could find in his sundry pack. The concoction would be heated in their canteen cup over a ball of C-4. Captain Caudill got caught up in his letter writing to Sally.

     On several evenings, RTOs Fred Walters and David Eaton sat within earshot of First Sergeant Pink Dillard, listening to his Korean War stories. Truth is, all Fred could do was stare at Pink's mouth, but he wasn't listening to a thing Pink was saying. He was too busy dreaming about his upcoming R and R in Japan. Neither he nor Eaton realized that Pink didn't care in the least whether they listened or not. His motivation for talking about his horrific experiences in Korea was not to entertain his troops. Instead, he was desperately trying to convince himself of something that was of a much more primal concern. He was desperately trying to make himself believe that he was going to live through the current mess. The recounting of old war stories was the only way he knew to generate at least a faint hope of doing that. He had survived in those stories, so now he hoped that the telling of them could convince his mind that he would survive this as well. Of course, it wasn't working. Each time we looked at Pink, we grunts were looking into the face of a man who had already been there. He had already lost what we would lose too. That lost thing is sometimes called the invincibility of youth.

     Another evil thought also haunted Pink. There was nothing he could do about that either. It had to do with our present commander, Watts Caudill. Watts was a dream come true, so why was Pink having evil thoughts about Watts? Watts gave Pink the run of the place. He also showed him the respect he needed to be displayed in front of the men. Even better, Watts was quick to take up the slack, where he knew Pink had misgivings. One of those misgivings was Pink's lack of confidence in that darned radio. Pink knew that Watts knew, but he never belittled him for it.

     Instead, Caudill just found a reason for Pink to be doing something else when he, himself, could not be near the radio. Besides, Walters and Eaton were more than capable of handling anything that came up on the radios. Watts just had a knack for knowing when and how to shelter the respected position of his First Sergeant. Watts quenched a multitude of little annoyances, which in totality could have degraded Pink’s standing in the eyes of the men. The radio was just one example of many. No, the problem concerning Watts did not stem from any personal issue with his commander. Instead, it was the hard, cold fact that Watts would be rotating soon. That was bad because Pink knew that there was a good chance that he would be getting some "Yankee Doodle" who didn't know his butt from a hole in the ground. When the business of the day died down, the only way Pink knew to stop thinking about those things was to keep reliving over and over the certainty of the past. Telling his Korean War stories was a convenient way to do that. The alternative would be silence, and that silence could be deafening. Besides, his war stories were a common denominator for everyone listening. He certainly was not going to talk about his private life in front of grunts. 

     I have no explanation for why our unit's cooks were stationed at Di An, which was miles south of my B Company's position on Thunder Road. Nevertheless, I followed the cooks. Our forward base at Lai Khe would have been much closer. Yet, the cooks and I were at Di An, and Di An was miles further South of Lai Khe. I remember this so well because of other events that transpired during this time. My explanation for one of those events will help clarify the workings of a Christian legacy. It’s a memory which has been etched into my brain like stone, but I never realized the significance until recently. It’s a seemingly minor episode in my Vietnam experience, but with profound overtones. It indicates just how far I had become separated from the legacy, which God had purposed for my life. If I were to give this little story a title, I might call it "Slopping Hogs for Dummies".

     While my grunt buddies were guarding Thunder Road, I remember taking the mess hall slop to the local dump each of those days. That dump was several miles away from Di An. The half-liquefied and smelly stuff was stored in fifty-five-gallon barrels. These were loaded on my truck by the guys in my unit who were pulling KP. (If the reader doesn't know what KP is, ask a Vietnam-era veteran who has served as an Army grunt, and he will tell you.) I drove to the dump by myself because those KP grunts had potatoes to peel. The cooks were not about to spare them so that they could go with me.

     When I arrived at the dump, I popped the lids on the barrels of slop and tipped the barrels to pour the nasty stuff off the back of my truck. Here is why I remember this otherwise most forgettable chore. As I began to pour the stinking stuff, there would be at least a dozen Vietnamese men fighting each other for positions under that rotten garbage. They tried to catch it in all types of containers. The gooey mess splattered all over those who managed to claw their way closer to my barrel. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. I certainly didn't understand it. Yet, this happened each time I went to the dump. I mentioned this puzzling phenomenon to another vet after returning stateside, and he provided me with a plausible answer. "This garbage was probably delicious food for hogs", he said. A light bulb went on immediately in several of those under-worked neurons in my brain. I should have known that from living on a farm. However, I was too self-absorbed to care about anything that did not pertain to me at that very instant in time.

     Even so, having learned this fact too late, I still did not feel any regret for not taking the time to distribute the contents of those barrels in a way that would have made it easier for everyone to fill their containers. I wasted a large quantity, as I intentionally tried to dowse those closest to the barrel, just for the fun of it. These were probably people whose lives had been uprooted by the war. One or two of them were among the six thousand inhabitants of Ben Suc who had been removed from their ancestral farm lands around Ben Suc during Operation Cedar Falls. Those Vietnamese had been placed in a government holding pen not far from the dump. Regardless of their circumstances, these dump people were trying to feed their families by raising hogs. Now, they were being mistreated by me just because of my blind ignorance. I know my insensitive actions were a small thing, but lives are changed for better or worse by small things. A believer's power to promote life-giving change is rooted in how that believer handles the small things in their life. God's favor is measured by how well we deal with the small adversities. His grace takes care of the big things. Truth is, I failed to manifest what should have been one of the easiest acts of kindness to display. I was a prodigal far removed from God's best for my life, not realizing how close I was coming to the hog pen, myself.

     After finishing what I considered to be the most detestable job, I drove my truck to the nearest river and washed away the smell. Then I took a nice dunk in the fast-flowing waters. After that, I went back to Di An. As I drove, I let my wet fatigues dry out in the breeze generated by the wind blowing past the open roof of my truck. Every night, until I rotated, I joined the cooks, who would fix nice thick prime cuts of sirloin, with all the trimmings. We would do this after the mess hall closed for the evening. That mess hall at Di An was better stocked with various foodstuffs than many restaurants stateside. Sadly, I did not know about the situation that my fellow grunts faced on Thanksgiving Day until many years later.

     On Thanksgiving morning, traffic was the same as usual on Thunder Road. The workload for B Company was also the same as usual. Those who were assigned ambush patrol on this night would not pull road guard duty today. However, it was business as usual for everyone else in the unit. First Sergeant Dillard oversaw the rotation of personnel assigned such things as ambush patrols, but Captain Caudill picked the location from that map, which he had pondered for so long. It was also business as usual for the armored units assigned to Caudill's B Company. There were three tanks and four APCs from a platoon of the 1st Squadron, 4th Cavalry Regiment, and eleven APCs from two platoons of the 2nd and 2nd Infantry Battalion (mechanized). The 2nd and 2nd was one of the nine battalions of the Big Red One. One of the most essential items of business for these armor unit guys would have been to refuel. That fuel would arrive in some of the first trucks in the resupply convoy headed north. I guess that the fuel would have been carried in 5-gallon "jerry cans". These units had not burnt that much fuel in the last few days, so there was no need to send a tank truck. That tank truck would have been a bigger temptation for sappers to target. I know what I said previously, but whether there were civilians around or not, a tank truck was a very tempting target. My B Company cooks probably fed the armor crews Thanksgiving Dinner on our dime.

     The cooks worked hard all day getting the big feast ready. Our head cook, Tiny, had long since rotated. I don't remember who the new head cook was. There were three of our companies spread out along Thunder Road. Each would have had a big tent and cooks to man all three. There was also a battalion mess hall at Di An, which was tasked with serving a Thanksgiving Day meal for the rear echelon people like me. Thanksgiving Day was a lot of hard work for our cooks. I smashed my big toe by dropping a block of ice on it while loading ice from my truck onto a waiting Chinook. The big meal was not served until 1700 hours. That's because serving time had to be coordinated with the road closure for the day. The men were well-versed on the importance of keeping the serving line short. As they returned from their guard duties along Thunder Road, each grabbed a paper plate of food and went straight to their bunker. Soon, after eating, the ambush patrol readied themselves to leave the perimeter. Civilian traffic along Thunder Road began to thin quickly. A few civilian stragglers could be seen hurriedly scurrying along so they wouldn't get caught on the road after curfew. If they were caught, then they were at significant risk of being shot.

     The men of my B Company were not the only ones who ate well on Thanksgiving Day. Colonel Nguyen Hoa's conscripts ate well, too, although they had a lot less to be thankful for. By the end of the first week in December, at least 1/3rd of them would be dead, and many of the rest severely wounded. They had arrived in camp a few days before, marching nonstop from the Loc Ninh area. They had traveled two abreast down the same well-mapped ox cart trails, which were there when Uncle Hoa fought the French. Local guides were switched out in succession along the way. The march itself had taken less than three days. Upon reaching their destination, a good meal was waiting. The strength of these skinny teenagers was not being replenished from stores of rice being supplied through the Delta or the Ho Chi Minh Trail. It was domestic rice coming from domestically produced supplies. The evidence for my claim is evident in the statistics, which show a drastic decline in rice production in 1967. I believe that massive decline was caused by the siphoning of local rice production onto the black market, thus never getting counted in the official annual rice production numbers. As I have already mentioned, numerous vegetables and meats were also siphoned off from local growers and transported to Colonel Hoa's hideout daily by black pajama support troops. No doubt, hundreds of NVA support people passed by our noses daily. I personally passed all types of vehicles transporting foodstuffs up and down Thunder Road on Lambrettas. Each of these could have easily carried enough vegetables to feed at least fifty people, and there were scores of these Lambrettas everywhere I looked. It was impossible to keep track of their activities. However, there was something else that I never witnessed. I never saw a single enemy attempt to disrupt civilian travel on these main highways during the day. Why would they? The enemy did not want to interrupt its own logistics support. Sure, military convoys were targeted, but they were primarily attacked away from heavy civilian traffic areas.  

    During November, as Hoa's conscripts waited a few days in a hidden base camp near my B Company, they "dry fired" and trained on specific jobs that they would be required to perform during an assault. As usual, new replacements were trained to make those suicidal human wave attacks in response to whistles or bugles. However, the cleared ground around B Company NDP was not conducive to that kind of tactic. Human wave attacks across open ground with those big American fifty caliber machine guns blasting away didn't make sense, not even to a heartless commander like Hoa. Instead, while mortaring the armored positions within the American base camp, Hoa decided to have his pith helmet teenagers, carrying RPGs and Bangalore torpedoes, be led quietly in the darkness by sappers across the open ground. The mortar fire would make the Americans keep their heads down. In the meantime, Hoa's young conscripts would be led in to do the up close and dirty work.

     The savvy sappers, themselves, would direct them to positions along the perimeter, from a safer distance. The barber had been given an explicit directive by the communist commissar of his village to map the locations of the American armor. He was to do this as he went about his business of cutting hair during the day. A big part of Hoa's plan relied on this accurate mapping of Caudill's attached armor. Hoa knew that the American commander would soon direct fire down on His troops from the sky. The key was speed. RPG teams were to flood through the breaches in the wire, made by Bangalore torpedoes, and take out bunkers, as well as what was left of the armor in their path. It was a bold plan. Hoa knew that those gunships could make the short trip from Lai Khe in minutes. Upon arrival, they could quickly kill anything moving on open ground. Soon, a "spooky" would also show up. That had flares which could provide light on the battlefield below. They also had Gatlin guns to neutralize the enemy exposed by those flares. Because these assets arrived very quickly, those RPG teams needed to get through the wire as fast as possible. There, inside the wire, gunships would be unable to fire down on their own people. Yet, to kick things off, much of Hoa’s plan depended on an accurate mortaring of those armor positions, and that relied on the accuracy of the barber's map.

     B Company had now been on Thunder Road for five nights. By now, Caudill knew his area map pretty well, but he was running out of new spots to place his ambush patrols. There was an increased danger of taking the same routes twice, but sometimes it couldn't be helped. There were only so many directions on a map. Fortunately, for the past few nights, he had been blessed to have experienced squad leaders leading his ambush patrols. Those veterans could pull new tricks out of their hat, no matter what, and they knew enough to know that Caudill did not want to know about some of their tricks. All Caudill had to do was "rubber-stamp" their briefing. These guys would iron out any wrinkles in that briefing on the fly.

     However, tonight was different. Tonight, it was the "wet-nosed kids "'s turn to lead an ambush patrol. That automatically caused both his platoon leader and Caudill to reach for the Rolaids. This young Sergeant had been with the company for only a short time, while B Company was the ready reserve at Quan Loi. He had checked all the right boxes after he enlisted and was made a Sergeant fast. Yet, he had no combat experience. Caudill knew this, and the young Sergeant's platoon leader was aware of it as well. That's why Caudill made sure that he joined the squad huddle so he could listen in on the briefing. He showed up at the very last minute and stood silent while his platoon leader did the talking. Lieutenant Johnson was the platoon leader in my November Platoon.

     Johnson quickly emphasized to the untested Sergeant that he was to follow the azimuth paralleling Thunder Road until his path crossed an old railroad bed. There, he was to hide his squad until almost dark. He was then to relocate to a nearby wood line due west of that position. Hopefully, no spying eyes would see the squad making their move across the open ground in the gathering darkness. That wood line would provide good cover and concealment. From there, using the one-starlight scope issued to B Company, members of the patrol could pull shifts watching the cleared areas all night while the others slept. They would have a good view of the brushy open areas around the railroad track. The meeting was short. The young squad leader did not ask a single question. "Did that mean that he didn't know enough to ask questions?" Caudill couldn't help but ponder that thought as the briefing ended. Caudill remained quiet as he and his RTOs walked toward the command bunker. If he had doubts about his young Sergeant, he could not be more pleased with Johnson's handling of the briefing, and he had told him so in front of the men at the briefing. Now, if only he could feel the same way about the "wet-nosed kid”, but he just couldn't. "Fred", Caudill asked, as they headed back to the command bunker, "Do you have any of those Rolaids left?"

     Sucking on a Rolaid, by the time Caudill reached the command bunker, he had already shaken off any concerns about the ambush patrol. In their place, he began thinking about getting settled in for the night. He could find time to write a short letter to Sally. It would be nice if First Sergeant Pink Dillard skipped the war stories for tonight. With that thought in mind, Caudill was pleasantly surprised when he caught a glimpse of Pink in the distance. The First Sergeant was stretched out on the ground with his upper body propped against the sandbag wall of their command bunker. His head was down, and his eyes were closed. "Thank God", Caudill thought to himself, "Maybe there would be no war stories tonight". It appeared that the First Sergeant was sound asleep. Those extra pieces of pumpkin pie had "done the trick". Pink was ending his Thanksgiving Day a little earlier than usual. Seeing this, Caudill quickly mustered his most compelling command voice and began addressing all within "earshot". "I want everyone to let the First Sergeant get some rest. If you need something taken care of, then call Fred. When Caudill finished that short command, he couldn't help but notice a little smile break out just at the very corners of Pink's mouth. However, the First Sergeant remained completely motionless, while Caudill broke out in a little smile of his own.

     The hours of darkness ticked by. There was just a sliver of a moon in the sky. That meant the night was so dark that one would not have been able to see one's hand in front of one's face. Several hours into this black night, Hoa had his guides lead 300 of his troops down the ox cart trail coming from the west. That trail ran straight through the middle of the American camp. Instead of rifle formations, these troops were made up of teams carrying Bangalore torpedoes, RPGs, and conscripts with satchel charges. In the darkness, they were guided by experienced sappers to spread out along the American perimeter and lie flat until the whistles blew, signaling them to attack. Hoa planned to take out the armored positions first with the indirect fire from his mortars, but the armor had been ordered to relocate their positions after dark by Captain Caudill. Hoa also had sappers sneak up on the east side of the perimeter and place mines between Thunder Road and the Constantine wire. They were able to do this because the night was very dark. After accomplishing this task, these sappers skedaddled. If all else failed, this surely wouldn't. It would be just one more nasty little surprise for the Americans to discover, just when they thought the fighting was over. Just thinking about it made Hoa's face brighten into a sinister smile.

     Hoa probably knew that B Company had been left behind at Quan Loi during the fighting at Loc Ninh. He may have also thought that it was Dick's most inexperienced company. Perhaps that's why he attacked B Company first, instead of A or D Company, which were also guarding this same stretch of Thunder Road. Whether this was true or not is of little concern. No matter who was where, of more importance to Hoa was the lay of the battlefield and the timing of the attack. It was a very dark Thanksgiving night, so the timing could not have been more perfect. His mortar teams, thanks to the barber's map, had a good fix on the embedded armor, or so he thought.  

     Westmoreland was not the only one who dreamed of racking up large body counts. On this night, this was Hoa's intent too. Hoa had no illusions about holding the ground he was fighting for. Still, if his troops moved quickly and utilized their newly supplied Bangalore torpedoes, RPGs, and satchel charges, they could sweep through B Company's defenses and kill a large number of Americans before they had a chance to respond. Every one of Duan's field commanders, including Hoa, dreamed of killing a lot of Americans. What they didn't care about was whether they won the battle or not. That was irrelevant. Would many of his conscripts die in this attack? If we could have gotten an honest response from Hoa, his answer would have been yes. However, Hoa did not have to worry about that. That was a problem which we Americans had to worry about, but not Hoa. You see, leftist regimes only pretend to care about human life to gain an advantage in certain situations. In reality, most care only for themselves, no matter what their political affiliation. America requires accountability to the rule of law, but not so do leftists. So, what if they lost a few million hapless souls as long as the elites stayed in control and gained more control? Of course, anyone can become a leftist elite. Just be willing to sell your soul to the devil.   

     Shortly after midnight, a salvo of mortar rounds landed around the mortar pit. The mortar platoon leader, Dennis Zuberg, was blown out of the pit and badly injured but survived. Other barrages landed harmlessly where the armor was positioned before it was repositioned after dark. During the mortar attack, B Company kept their heads down and were well protected by their refurbished DePuy bunkers. At this time, there would have been very little return fire, giving the NVA time to advance and blow holes in the perimeter wire. They were teenagers. Most had never seen combat. They did a lousy job of breaching the perimeter. They set off trip flares along the perimeter, which is something that an experienced sapper would hardly ever do. In response, my B Company boys started blowing their Claymore mines with devastating results. It would not have been unusual for us to place as many as 10 Claymore mines in front of each position. I am sure my thump gun buddy, Walker, would have been watching from the rear of his bunker to catch any hapless souls illuminated by those trip flares. With enemy mortar rounds still falling, trip flares were now going off all along the entire west side of the perimeter. Men who were manning the ports inside their DePuy bunkers would not have been able to see very much, even with a well-lit perimeter. The third man, manning the entryway, would have been able to see more but was also less protected from flying shrapnel and incoming rounds.

     There was always the tendency for most to start shooting too soon or simply waste ammo when it was time to shoot. My research, as well as my own experience, can state unequivocally that this was a big problem for most units during the entire war. Men tended to spray bullets all around and high instead of taking time to place three-round bursts into a particular area to their front and then traversing their fire. This tendency did nothing but aggravate the jamming problem inherent to the M-16. My research also indicates that Dick was well aware of this problem. Captain Caudill was, too. He passed word along very quickly for everyone to hold their fire until given orders to shoot unless they could see an actual target. Many times, the enemy would shoot just to draw our fire. He could then locate our bunkers and take them out with an RPG, or so he thought. Even then, our DePuy bunkers with their strong overhead cover provided good protection, even against an RPG.

     By this time, radios were blaring everywhere around the perimeter. Mortar rounds and RPG shrapnel ripped holes in the big tent. Within minutes, Caudill was on the horn with Dick, giving him a sitrep (Situation Report). Dick waited for Watts to finish. Then he reminded him to make sure that everyone held their fire until the enemy could be seen breaching the wire. "That order has already been transmitted, Sir", Caudill responded, but not in his usual controlled tone of voice. Instead, he was screaming to overcome the noises of the battle. Before he finished updating Dick, mortar teams attached to the armor unit began firing flare rounds high into the night sky. A "spooky" from Lai Khe soon arrived to drop more parachute flares. Soon, the entire area was as brightly lit as a nighttime Oilers game at the Astrodome. That was good for the men inside the perimeter, but bad for the Americans on those listening posts.      

     Mike Platoon Leader Dale McCall had a problem. All three of Dale's listening post guys were severely wounded, within minutes after the fighting started. They radioed for help. Without hesitation, McCall crawled out of his bunker and ran toward the wire. In his haste, he forgot to take his weapon. The cleared ground outside the wire provided minimal cover and concealment. That made it easy for McCall to spot his three wounded men. Unfortunately, it had also made it easy for them to be spotted earlier by enemy sapper teams. When McCall reached the perimeter, he was stopped by strands of Constantine wire. Adrenalin flowing, he picked up a heavy piece of Marston matting lying nearby. He laid it across the razor-sharp wire. As he began using it as a walkway across the sharp strands of wire, he was stopped in his tracks by the sight of an NVA conscript staring at him from the other side of the wire. Fortunately for McCall, the conscript seemed confused and was grasping only a section of a Bangalore torpedo in his hands. He had no weapon. So, he couldn't shoot Dale. Manny Rivera had noticed that Dale had forgotten his rifle, so Manny followed Dale to give him his rifle. Manny showed up just in time to see the VC staring at Dale. In a heartbeat, he shot the VC dead. Without hesitating, McCall then continued walking across the wire and ran toward his wounded men. Manny waited at the wire, providing covering fire, while Dale returned with his wounded men. They were mobile enough to make it back to the perimeter, but not without McCall's help.

     At the same time, our armor units unleashed their deadly 50-caliber machine guns. Three men on another platoon's listening post were killed. Several men whom I interviewed many years later believed that these men were killed by friendly fire. They believed that fire was coming from those mechanized units. Here is why I do not think that. B Company had been operating with these armor guys for several days. Listening posts had been going out each day on this open ground. Those guys could see our listening posts very clearly before the sun set. They were aware of their location. They had watched them go and come every day. However, someone else was also watching them. It's a sure bet that Hoa's troops were watching from that wood line, and it's a much more likely scenario that Hoa's troops took out our listening posts as soon as the shooting started. With the open ground and with our artillery flares illuminating the entire area brighter than the noonday sun, it’s doubtful that those armor crews would have had any trouble identifying those Americans on those listening posts. Due to the more open terrain and the illumination of the area by flares, it was much more likely that they became good targets for enemy machine gunners and sappers. I have been under flares at night. An American wearing a steel helmet could be easily recognized. If the battlefield had been all thick jungle, then that would have been a different story. In that case, I could believe that they were possibly killed by friendly fire. I had been in a situation earlier in the year when a mechanized unit was operating with us in thick jungle. It was daytime, but they couldn't see through the dense jungle. During contact, they opened up on us, too. However, I say again that I do not believe that this was the case in this current situation. 

     While McCall was addressing his problems in his own personal way, Captain Caudill had another problem, and it had nothing to do with fearing that his camp was going to be overrun. With all the American firepower on full display around him, being overrun was not something to worry about. Less than thirty minutes into the attack, however, he had lost a couple of listening posts. There was nothing he could do about that now. However, Eaton was handing him another problem on his company radio, which could turn deadly if he didn't take action and do it quickly. It was the "wet nose kid" on the other end of the transmission. "Sir, he hears noises and wants to blow the ambush", Eaton said as he handed over the mic. Upon hearing that, Caudill's quick mind visualized the gravity of what was being requested and just for an instant froze with anger. Yet, a thousand past command experiences told him that his anger was not the right tool to use when taking command of "stupid". So, Caudill let go of the anger before grabbing the mic. "November One, this is Bravo Six. November One, I am ordering you to sit tight and do not broadcast unless necessary. Do you understand?" "I understand came the answer from the other end of the transmission. But the young Sergeant didn't really understand. He called back at least three more times, requesting to blow the ambush. He was drowning in his own fear, and Caudill was "momma" to him. In a perfect world, he should never have been leading an ambush patrol in the first place, but he was. Each time he called, Captain Caudill rejected his pleas. The enemy had no idea of his location, but with every transmission, he was giving that enemy more and more opportunities to learn that location. So, Caudill had to be brief with him each time he called. He had to be brief but firm. "Stay put and stay off this radio unless your situation changes", said Caudill in his final communications with the scared Sergeant. I am sure that it never dawned on this guy that Watts was trying desperately to save the lives of that entire squad. Trying to return to camp across that open terrain, lit up like a ball field, would have been suicide. I wonder if, later, that young Sergeant realized that his captain had saved his life that night by making him stay hidden until the battle was over?

     Of course, the attack was not a success for Hoa, and the battle was over by 0130 hours. There was just too much firepower coming from the American camp for Hoa's pitiful fighters to have any chance whatsoever of breaching the perimeter.

     Years later, I learned of a very troubling event that happened during this attack. Both the barber and his young son were found dead in that clearing to the west of camp, where 55 enemy dead were also discovered after the battle was over. A map of B Company's NDP was found on the barber. Finding the map on the old man's body led some to believe that both the father and son were VC. On the surface, it seemed that they had been in cahoots with the communists and that the barber had drawn a map of our positions within the camp. He would have had the perfect opportunity to do this as he circled B Company's perimeter during the day, offering to cut hair. However, I don't believe this story is that simple. You see, it is not very likely that a man who was the barber’s age would have willingly become a foot soldier during the attack.

     It’s more likely that the old man was coerced into drawing the map of our camp. In my research, I have obtained a report from a Vietnamese woman whose grandfather was murdered by the communists because he refused to spy on an American camp. In any case, a map of the American camp would have been turned over to Hoa before the battle started. It indeed would not have been found on the old man’s body unless Hoa was intentionally implicating him as a spy. Also, the old man’s son was found beside his father’s body. A much more plausible explanation of their deaths is that they were murdered by Hoa when it became apparent to Hoa that the armored positions on the map were wrong. It's much more plausible that the old man had been coerced into drawing the map, but Captain Caudill had made the armored units move to new positions after curfew. Numerous enemy troops in position around the perimeter that night would have been able to witness Hoa's mortar rounds landing on empty ground instead of blowing up armored units. Those eyewitness accounts of the mortar attack would have sealed the old man's fate. Hoa assumed he had intentionally drawn the map wrong, especially since not a single armored vehicle was hit. Judging by many other atrocities committed by the communists, it’s not beyond the realm of possibilities to believe that Hoa then considered the old man to be a traitor. It is also believable that Hoa then had his son shot while the old man watched, before murdering the old man himself. I believe that the map was then placed on his body, where it could easily be discovered. All this would have been done to send a message to others in his village that they had better take seriously the instructions of their communist orcs who ruled over their village by night. The smoking gun, which makes me believe what I have just written, is that the map was found on the dead barber. No doubt it was planted on the barber after communist sociopaths murdered him.

     Not only were he and his son murdered in this manner, but so were thousands of other hapless Vietnamese who would not cooperate fully with their communist overseers. We Americans were oblivious to this fact of life, which most Vietnamese citizens lived with every day. We Americans have never had to deal with a political environment like that of 1967 Vietnam. Most Americans, including myself, commonly believed that many South Vietnamese willingly supported the communists. That belief was false, but was promoted as much as possible by leftist propaganda. Of course, some did, but most were not given any other choice. We should have made sure that we gave them that choice. Instead, we chased around the jungle, looking for someone to shoot. I was there. I observed the Vietnamese people with my own eyes. I looked into countless Vietnamese eyes, which said, " I am looking for nothing more than to be given a chance to make a life for myself and my family, and I will do whatever it takes to protect that life. If that means cooperating with that communist shadow government, then so be it". The Vietnamese wanted the same chance that MacArthur gave to the Japanese after the Second World War. The common false belief was that the Vietnamese people worked their rice fields during the day and killed Americans at night.

     Human behavior 101 says that's just not true. As I said, some did, but those were the exceptions. To believe that this was the heartfelt desire of most Vietnamese is to be very naive. I have said it once, but it bears repeating. Most human beings across the globe have the same basic desires. They want security for themselves and their family, as well as the ability to provide for them. After that, they want the freedom to do what they please. A representative form of government, like our republic, with fairly run elections, provides the best political framework for that to happen. 

     I remember the sun rising on November 28. The rest of the details of that day are sketchy. On second thought, I don't know if the sun came up or not. However, it had to come up because that was the day of my resurrection. That day, I checked in all my field gear, donned my khaki uniform, and reported to the orderly room. From there, I caught a bus to Tan Son Nhut Air Base. I don't remember saying goodbye to anyone at Di An, not even the motor pool sergeant who was instrumental in saving my soul. All the guys who I was closest to were still in the field guarding Thunder Road.

     Hoa would attack D Company on December 3 and A Company on December 10. During Hoa's December 3rd assault on D company, Sergeant Chesnut would chase some sappers into the brush beyond the perimeter, killing several of them. One of those sappers, who got away, turned around and followed him back to the wire, shooting him dead just as he approached the safety of the perimeter.

     I believe Dick had already completed his time in the field when Hoa attacked A Company on December 10. His successor, George Tronsrue, was more than capable of taking care of the situation. It helped that he had trained under Dick before taking command.

    Had the motor pool sergeant not offered me a job, I would have been in all those big battles toward the end of the year, including that Thanksgiving Day battle on Thunder Road. No, I would not have been killed. However, I would have had to kill other human beings, and that would have been okay in God's eyes for most others in my unit, but not me. No, not me. You see, if the cause is just, it is not a sin to kill the enemy, with one exception. One should never glory in the taking of human life. That is the one exception, and I gloried way too much in doing just that. I only volunteered one time during my military service. I jumped at the chance to volunteer for sniper training. In itself, that was not wrong. However, I did not volunteer so I could save lives or advance our just cause in Vietnam. I volunteered so I could have a better chance at taking trophies. In other words, I gloried in the kill.

     The American sniper, Chris Kyle, did not glory in what he did. As a sniper, he took lives to save lives. God is not happy about any violent act, but the taking of human life is not a sin in his eyes if the cause is just. As I have said, if I had been with my unit during those big battles at the end of the year, I would have had to take lives. I would have then gloried in that. That's not okay with God. Plainly put, I was a "sick puppy". God used the motor pool sergeant to save my soul from the corrupting consequences of a sin that could have scarred me for life.

     On December 10, a Montagnard Village near Loc Ninh was massacred by the communists, women and children included. That incident was hardly reported. It is becoming increasingly impossible to perform an impartial search on the internet to retrieve data about the communist atrocities committed in the Vietnam War. Every Google search result on this topic displays page after page of results pointing to the American incident at My Lai. However, further research indicates that the American crimes against the Vietnamese pale in comparison to those committed by the communists.

     I left Vietnam for good upon completing my tour. Shortly after I left, Lieutenant Colonel Dick Cavazos followed suit. Before leaving, the entire battalion was flown from the field to Di An so Dick could say his goodbye. Like so much else, I would miss out on that goodbye address.

     After reading what I have written, some may suppose that I hate the communists who now run Vietnam, but that's not true. I love the Vietnamese people, including that 3% who are card-carrying communists. It may surprise my communist friends to hear me say this. I also believe that the communist ideals are very noble. However, those ideals are based on humanity creating governments that are the final authority on everything human. Making humanity the final authority on anything will always lead to disaster. Tremendous pain and suffering will always be the final result of this choice. I believe America has been a proving ground for a better way. We have created an earthly government rooted in principles taken from the word of God and not from the noble aspirations of humanity. We have not done that perfectly, but we have strived to move in the right direction. Now, let us continue. Let's continue to strive to rightly divide those principles, abiding within them, to bring true equality of opportunity for all. When we do that, we also create the safest haven to be found this side of heaven.

     After 1975, with the communists in complete control of Vietnam, another estimated three million Vietnamese would die violent deaths during the first ten years of communist rule. The government would deliberately murder many.